


Timestamp: Kick Your Heels

by lyonet



Series: A Right Turn After Bad Idea [11]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Past minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonet/pseuds/lyonet
Summary: Oh, fabulous. Arthur has brought a date; double the blonde, no doubt double the irritation.The girl is vaguely familiar. With the circles she moves in, there’s a certain set of people Morgana knows from sight and has probably exchanged pleasantries with over canapes at one of her father’s parties, but wouldn’t recognise if she met them under any other circumstances. Arthur is fully aware of this. “Vivian, this is my sister Morgana,” he says, putting a hand on his date’s waist. “Morgana, this is Vivian Alined. I’m sure you remember her.”





	

**Party 1**

Arthur Pendragon is prince of two castles today. The family estate is displayed at its best angle in the warm afternoon sun andon the wide green lawn below, four rubber towers sway wildly with the over-excited bouncing of the birthday boy and twenty or so of his closest friends. A huge cake in the shape of a red racing car is parked on the lunch table, the letters iced on a sugar numberplate reading ARTHUR5. A gaggle of exhausted nannies hover to watch the children while their parents talk business over mimosas. Like son, like father; Uther holds court, guiding the conversation with a genial smile. Whenever someone brings up an awkward point, Gorlois is there to smooth things over. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, an image repeated across a decade of media coverage.

As always, Vivienne is not there.

Morgana finds her in the parking lot, leaning against the Lefay Bentley and stealing a cigarette. Her hair is swept into a glossy dark updo, her crimson dress paired with matching lipstick and six-inch wedges. “Hello there, baby,” she says, crushing the cigarette butt under her heel. “Getting bored already?”

What she means is, _she’s_ bored, but Morgana nods. She likes agreeing with her mother, joining her in an exclusive little bubble of sarcasm and sophistication. “Arthur is such a child,” she sniffs.

Vivienne laughs, deep and throaty, and pets Morgana’s artistic tumble of curls. “You’re not wrong,” she says. “We’d better show our faces, though, or Daddy will pout. You know how he is.”

Morgana reluctantly follows her back to the party. It is too hard to try and explain why she doesn’t want to be there. Mithian has not forgiven her for what Morgana did to her dolls house on their last playdate (it isn’t _Morgana’s_ fault that Mithian was unprepared for modern warfare) and Mithian’s best friend Elena has apologetically joined in the cold shouldering. Morgana wouldn’t care much if Gwen was here – she knows Arthur wanted her to come, but Uther obviously vetoed that invitation, and Arthur himself, the only other child at the party who Morgana knows, is too busy leading a horde of five year olds into a sugar frenzy to bother with her.

Not that she plans on lowering herself by talking to him first, or apologising to Mithian, or anything stupid like that. That would make them think they’re right. Which they are not. She sits uncertainly by the party table for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do instead.

“Move aside, please,” an imperious voice lisps beside her, and a little girl with bouncing blonde ringlets nudges her firmly aside to get at the chocolate tray. The sweets are all moulded into fruit shapes and flavoured with whatever they look like; Morgana looks on with wide eyes as the girl calmly stuffs her face with one cherry after another, until she resembles a hamster. Somehow, she chews. Morgana watches in unwillingly impressed silence until the girl finally swallows, dabs delicately at her face with a napkin (in the process completely missing the streak of chocolate on her cheek) and introduces herself airily as “Vivian Alined, actually.”

“My name’s Morgana,” Morgana says primly. “Gorlois Lefay is my father.”

“He’s important,” Vivian says. Having established Morgana’s place in the pecking order, she sits next to her and takes another chocolate, this one a pineapple. “Your mother is the pretty lady over there, isn’t she? I saw her in a magazine.”

Morgana preens. “Yes, that’s her. Where’s yours?”

“Oh, Mama didn’t come.” Vivian shrugs. “She told Daddy he could kiss ass on his own.”

Once again, Morgana is more impressed than she wants to be. Vivian swears with so much confidence. They look at the crowd of adults critically, pointing out the ones they know to each other. It turns competitive very quickly. Vivian knows and likes Mr Godwin, Elena’s father; Morgana thinks he’s boring. They both look at Justice Aredian with identical dislike. “He’s creepy,” Morgana says, and “He’s _mean_ ,” Vivian agrees. When Uther calls the rest of the children over so that Arthur can cut the cake (a moment preserved for posterity by a team of four photographers), the two girls stand together to watch.

“Arthur’s pretty,” Vivian observes. “I might let him marry me when we’re grown up.”

Morgana is revolted. “Marry _Arthur_? He’s awful.”

“Well, I’ve got to marry somebody,” Vivian says reasonably. “Grown-ups do.”

Coming up behind them, Olaf Alined remarks to no one in particular, “Precocious, isn’t she? I’ll have to lock this one up in a tower.” Uther is standing off to one side, talking quietly to Vivienne. He hears Olaf, and laughs. Vivienne doesn’t.

The Lefays leave the party soon after that, Gorlois doing the rounds to say goodbye while Vivienne goes straight to the car. Morgana waves to Vivian, but she’s gone over to Arthur and doesn’t see.

“Can’t you make an effort?” Gorlois hisses, as he starts the car. “Uther needs me here.”

“Oh, Uther always needs you,” Vivienne says, looking out the window. From Morgana’s place on the back seat, she is a curve of red silk shoulder and pale neck, her face unseen. “He might be celebrating his perfect little golden boy, but today wasn’t about Arthur at all, was it? Here’s a tip for you, darling, keep the political business to cocktail parties and I’ll play nice as you like. But don’t you ever bring someone like Aredian to my daughter’s birthday party.”

She will be dead before Morgana’s next birthday. So will Gorlois. Morgana will remember this later: the smell of jasmine and nicotine, and a silence that stays with them all the way home.

 

**Party 2**

Annis Caerleon is all kinds of genius and there is nobody else Morgana would rather be working for, but it has to be said, this is a really boring party. Everybody else is in suit jackets and sensible shoes. Morgana’s green blouse is probably the most conservative shirt she owns and it still looks kind of scandalous by comparison. Ordinarily that would be a good thing, her sartorial philosophy is go big or stay home, but she tries to keep work a drama-free environment and so far six people have tried to hit on her, which is just getting awkward. Also, they are all blokes. The ladies of Caerleon appear to be depressingly straight.

Morgana checks her watch. This is going to be Arthur’s first Christmas party at Caerleon; she’ll wait until he shows up, talk someone into taking blackmail fodder photographs in case he embarrasses himself and then go on to a nightclub or somewhere else worthy of her Friday evening. She tunes back into the conversation that Helios from security is trying to have with her breasts, makes a vague excuse about using the powder-room and heads for the bar, because at least the drinks in this place are good.

Someone whistles. “Isn’t that your brother, Morgana?” Forridel from accounts asks, leaning sideways on her barstool for a better look, and Morgana bites down an acerbic response as she turns around to look too. Arthur has this effect on people. It’s very annoying. She remembers when they were children and old ladies cooed over his high spirits while Morgana was expected to smile prettily and keep her shoes clean.

Oh, fabulous. Arthur has brought a date; double the blonde, no doubt double the irritation.

The girl is vaguely familiar. With the circles she moves in, there’s a certain set of people Morgana knows from sight and has probably exchanged pleasantries with over canapes at one of her father’s parties, but wouldn’t recognise if she met them under any other circumstances. Arthur is fully aware of this. “Vivian, this is my sister Morgana,” he says, putting a hand on his date’s waist. “Morgana, this is Vivian Alined. I’m sure you remember her.”

They shake hands, exchanging wary smiles. Vivian is porcelain doll pretty, exactly Arthur’s type when it comes to girls. Her make-up game is flawless, her handshake firm. The introduction of her surname pinpoints her identity in Morgana’s mental catalogue. They haven’t seen each other in about fifteen years, unless you count Vivian’s regular appearances on the front covers of fashion magazines, and have nothing immediately visible in common, but they have both been trained on how to talk about nothing and do so now like pros. Arthur relaxes a bit.

“I’ll get drinks,” he says, and leaves them to it.

“How long have you been dating my baby brother?” Morgana inquires. She may as well get some fun out of this evening and sharing mildly humiliating stories about Arthur will do the trick, but she doesn’t actually want to scare Vivian off. If Morgana does that, Arthur is likely to rebound with someone appalling – even more appalling than usual – just to spite her.

“Since late October,” Vivian says. “He came to one of Dad’s dinners. I remembered him from when we were children and we got talking.”

Morgana suppresses a shudder. She put her foot down on attending those dinners when she was fourteen and has been avoiding them ever since. “How sweet.”

Vivian’s bright blue eyes narrow. She obviously knows a dismissal when she hears one. “And then,” she continues smoothly, “I took him home and we had lots of excellent sex. I shall have to have my living room rug professionally cleaned.”

Morgana can only stare at her for one undignified moment while she scrambles for a suitably cool, witty answer. Just as she grabs hold of one, Arthur returns with their drinks and Vivian clicks back into bubbly date chatter, hugging Arthur’s arm like it is a teddy bear instead of a human limb. Morgana sips sulkily at her martini. She doubts this fling will make it into the new year and good riddance, there isn’t enough room for more than one queen of snark and perfect hair in Morgana’s social circle and she is prepared to destroy the opposition with whatever means necessary.

 

**Party 3**

The relationship lasts into February. It is a miracle. It is a nightmare. Arthur is probably doing this specifically to upset Morgana; it is the only scientifically plausible explanation she can think of for his entire existence. She does not see that much of her brother and his new girlfriend in person, but their mutual friends are always bringing up Vivian in that pleased, mildly bewildered way they have when either Arthur or Morgana’s romantic relationships are yet to reach the crash and burn stage. Mithian and Vivian have hit it right off and are attending yoga classes together. Gwen is considering joining them.

“ _Why_ ,” Morgana says, not sure which part of this idea is more appalling: voluntarily spending time with Mithian Nemeth, or doing yoga. She woke up half an hour ago and is still angry about it; it’s easy to get angry about literally everything else.

“Well, we’re not all cut out for mixed martial arts,” Gwen points out.

“Every woman should know how to kill things with her bare hands. It’s a basic life skill.”

They are having brunch at Gwen’s place after what would have been a slumber party, were they both still ten, but is now the more grown-up version: overstuffed tacos paired with the wine that was open in Gwen’s fridge, an Agatha Christie movie marathon, and a bit of gentle bitching about Lance. Technically, this is his flat too, but it was Gwen’s first and Morgana is unwilling to transfer mental ownership to the boyfriend she just about tolerates. Besides, everything about the place radiates Gwenness: the cluster of flower-pots on every windowsill, the yellow curtains in the kitchen, the coffee cups with Jane Austen quotes printed around the sides that Morgana gave her three Christmases ago. Lance is ephemeral. There one minute, off to save someone else’s day the next. Morgana has no use for him.

She wishes it was that simple with Vivian, and prefers to pretend that it is.

“Anyway, you don’t _like_ Vivian,” she says, getting back to the subject at hand. “You think she’s insincere.”

“But I do like Arthur,” Gwen says, “and I want to get along with his girlfriend.”

“He is not worth the trouble, believe me, and neither is she.”

Gwen butters herself toast and ignores this remark, as she ignores nearly all gestures of animosity between her best friends, who have never quite forgiven each other for actually being siblings. “You know, it feels like half of our conversations lately have been about Vivian.”

“It’s Arthur’s fault that she has invaded our lives, not mine.”

Gwen regards her for a long, patient moment, waiting to see if that’s really all she has to say, then changes the subject to Lance’s request that she sponsor a panda instead of buying him a birthday present. Morgana is more careful about her complaints after that. Gwen knows her far too well.

 

**Party 4**

“How the hell did Uther convince you to show up?” Elena asks interestedly. From anyone else, that question would already have Morgana on the defensive, implying as it does that Uther has blackmailed her into toeing the party line. But she’s known Elena since they were toddlers and knows that Elena is incapable of delivering a deliberate barb; if she asks a question, she means exactly what she says.

“He didn’t,” Morgana tells her, taking a bracing swallow of champagne. “Other plans fell through and I was dressed up anyway, why waste the lipstick?”

She could have said, _I’m here because I just got broken up with._ If she had said that, it might have been easy to go on: _and I think it’s because I’m in love with my brother’s girlfriend._ Maybe she would even have admitted _I was so desperate to get out of the house that I came here because these are the people who know me best, who expect things from me, and maybe that will help me find my feet._ Elena is not a judgy person; she’d probably listen.

But fear of vulnerability is like a bad allergy passed down through Uther’s genes. The thought of vocalising the roil of confusion and humiliation in her head makes Morgana feel physically nauseated. Eira hardly even counted as a girlfriend; they had been sleeping together for about two months and Morgana doesn’t even know her middle name. She has no _right_ to leave Morgana this shaken.

“Want another drink?” Elena asks.

“God, yes.” The sound of her own voice makes Morgana go a bit cold – that automatic response is what her mother would have said. The hand could belong to Vivienne too, shapely scarlet fingernails tapping against the glass. Apparently Morgana is getting all her depressing internal reflections en masse tonight.

She keeps to the edge of the room for a while, eating stuffed mushrooms and talking about horses, because that is the safest possible subject with Elena. Once she feels on steadier footing, she starts circulating. Perhaps it is just because she is in such a terrible mood already, but the sight of so many middle-aged men, their faces seemingly unchanged after what feels like centuries of dinner parties exactly like this one, makes her desperately want to set something on fire. Preferably Aredian’s leering face.

“Why is he not dead yet?” Vivian says. She was on the other side of the room a minute ago; Morgana had to know where she was, so as to act like she didn’t know, but now she is at Morgana’s side with her eyes narrowed in Aredian’s direction. “What’s the point of growing up and becoming world-famous if I still have to put up with him?”

“You could hire an assassin,” Morgana suggests.

“I don’t know any socially. How would I find a reliable one?”

“I’ll take the job off your hands,” Morgana says lightly, “for the right price.” She can’t blame her flirting on the two glasses of champagne; this is entirely the chemical response brought on by looking into Vivian’s wide blue eyes, close enough to see the shimmer of of eyeliner on her lids. “Poison is a classic. A little cyanide in his glass…all I’d need is the alibi. I hope you’re willing to perjure yourself.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Vivian says, glancing up from under her eyelashes.

The swooping sensation in Morgana’s chest is probably the panicked thrashing of her good sense getting steadily overpowered. From the corner of her eye, she catches Arthur glance towards them, smile, and then turn back to his conversation Leon. What he sees is his sister being friendly with his girlfriend. He would not expect deceit; he never does.

Vivian follows her look and stiffens, blinking quickly like she’s trying to clear her head. “I should…talk to Mithian,” she says, sounding less than sure about it. “Excuse me.”

Morgana does not watch her go. She walks out of Uther’s house. There is no comfort here.

 

**Party 5**

Word comes through the grapevine early in March: Arthur and Vivian are not together any more. It is unclear who broke up with whom, and how either of them feel about it. Morgana does not ask, or express interest in any way, and Gwen never brings it up. There are times it is very useful to have a best friend who knows all your tells.

Vivian doesn’t call. Morgana did not expect her to, and is disappointed anyway.

She manages to wrangle herself a research grant and spends the rest of the year in Norway, sharing a lab and a flat with Dr Aglain, who is probably the nicest man she has ever met. She’s there when the email comes from Morgause. It’s lucky; she doesn’t know what she’d have done if she had been near Uther. The best she can say of him is that he didn’t know about Morgause – probably even Gorlois didn’t, just one more secret Vivienne took to her grave – but _God_ , did Uther not think for one second that she deserved to know about her family? Uther ignored them so absolutely that Morgana didn't even know they existed. What's worse is Uther's defense, that Vivienne was the one who broke ties with them first, because maybe it's true. It feels like the world is falling apart around her. She finds herself snapping at strangers for no reason, ignoring Arthur’s frantic voicemails, ignoring even Gwen. Finally, after weeks of emailing back and forth, she meets Morgause in a quiet art gallery. Neutral territory.

Morgause is blonde. That’s a shock. She looks more like Arthur’s sister than Morgana’s. But she has Vivienne’s fine-boned elegance and when she sees Morgana, her chilly hauteur cracks. When they hug, they hold on too tight, like they’ve been missing each other all along and might be separated again at any minute. Morgana has a _sister_.

She has more than a sister – she has a whole branch of relatives waiting to meet her, with Morgause as the envoy.  The next one she meets is Mordred, who flies out to Norway the second Morgause gives him the go-ahead. He’s barely out of his teens, glowing with sincerity on every subject from global politics to ice cream flavours. Morgana adopts him as her own on sight and Aglain feeds him three helpings of stew before making up a bed for him on the sofa.

It gets easier after that. The anger doesn’t go away, but Morgana handles it better. She calls Arthur back. It’s stilted, uncertain, a start. She calls Gwen too and talks all night, crying; by morning their friendship has been patched up, bruised but healing. In February she flies home from Norway and meets the rest of her new family. They all welcome her in different ways, but it is Morgause and Mordred she feels the most kinship with, seeing as much of them as she can.

It’s not as much time as she would like, because she’s back at Caerleon. Spring passes the baton over to summer while she is busy experimenting with alternative fuels (only one blows up; the office gossip mill makes such a fuss out of nothing). It is the middle of August when she surfaces, looking for a chance to kick up her heels and shake off the dust. She goes home early on Friday night, changes into a violet frock and her favourite shoes, and heads for the Rising Sun to start her night with a decent cocktail. There is a good chance of running into Arthur there, since he is the one who had recommended the place to her, but they’re getting along a bit better these days and besides, he’s working even madder hours than she is on his rise up the company ladder. She doesn’t bother to scan the bar first before ordering her drink.

Incaution, as ever, is quick to bite her. “Morgana?” someone says and she freezes for a fraction of a second as the voice registers. Then she slaps on a polite smile and twists around on the barstool. Vivian looks marvellous, of course. She makes a living from looking better than other people. She also looks uncertain, which doesn’t suit her.

“It’s been ages!” Morgana says, in her best society princess voice. It usually comes with air kisses, but she doesn’t trust herself quite that far. “How have you been?”

“More like where have I been,” Vivian says, recovering herself with a little shake of her curls. She has piled them up in an artfully messy cascade to go with her ‘I just rolled out of bed like this, honestly’ minimal make-up. “And that’s Italy, for the last six weeks.”

“Any fun?” Morgana asks, gesturing to the barkeep to bring more drinks.

“The gelato and coffee were. And the clothes, of course, but that bit was for work. How are you?”

“Saving the world,” Morgana says, “or possibly demolishing it, my colleagues can’t tell which.”

“Put off the apocalypse until Monday, would you? I have plans for tonight.” Vivian pauses, and adds in an almost diffident tone, “It’s my birthday, you see. Cake to eat, wishes to make.”

“Many happy returns,” Morgana says automatically, then – exasperated with herself for the empty cliché – follows it up with a belated kiss on Vivian’s cheek. She doesn’t ask why Vivian is out alone tonight, instead of celebrating with her family or a large entourage of friends. She knows what it’s like to get sick of even the people she loves most. “What are your plans, then?”

Vivian smiles. It’s bright and a little conspiratorial. “I thought I’d start with vodka and limes and see where it goes. Do you want in?”

It’s a bad idea. Morgana says yes. They clink their glasses together and Vivian looks up very specific search terms on her phone in order to find the best birthday cake in the city. Once they have finished their drinks, they jump in a taxi, heading to a little patisserie that looks like it got lost on the road out of Paris and which does indeed make the best birthday cake either of them have ever eaten. Vivian licks chocolate icing off her fingers and a giddy heat begins to build in Morgana’s chest. It feels, all of a sudden, like tonight is outside of the usual rules of their lives. It doesn’t count. They can run as wild as they want.

They do.

After cake, they have a round of shots in a big nightclub where glitter rains down from above, leaving a shimmer on their hair and skin. They dance for hours – sometimes with strangers, mostly with each other. When their feet begin to hurt, they leave that club and find another bar, Vivian applying her Google skills to the task with intent concentration. The place where they end up is a grotty little basement with terrible music and weirdly named drinks, but the barkeep is hot. “She looks a bit like you,” Vivian says hazily, sipping on a False Love. “Good hair.”

“Great ass,” Morgana agrees, downing the last of her Brawl. It is a strange shade of orange and has one hell of a kick.

“Also like you,” Vivian says. “The ass, I mean. Yours is great too.”

Morgana gives a peal of raucous laughter and knocks her glass against Vivian’s. “True.”

They have a couple more drinks and flirt outrageously with the barkeep (who grins and flirts back just as hard). By the time they totter back up to street-level, drunk and sleepy and walking arm-in-arm, it’s nearly two a.m. “Chips,” Vivian says. “Let’s get chips.”

The taxi driver they hail is amenable to getting drive-through and Vivian orders for him too as a reward for being a good sport. “Good night, ladies?” he asks, taking a bite of burger at the next red light.

“Better than a racing car cake,” Vivian yawns, and Morgana laughs herself sick.

She wakes up the next morning in Vivian’s bed, with her dress still on (now a crumpled wreck) but her shoes unbuckled and perched neatly on the rug. Vivian, also fully dressed, is face-down in a pastel pink pillow. The bed is surrounded by a froth of gauzy white curtains, and between them Morgana glimpses fragments of a room that looks more like a romance novel boudoir than a place someone would really live. It smells like roses and booze in here. Morgana sits up, clutching her head, and Vivian stirs with a protesting noise.

This is what she really looks like first thing in the morning: tangled and indignant, her face wiped clean of make-up (some habits die too hard for mere intoxication to break), her eyes huge and blurry and blue. She squints at Morgana for a few moments, produces another moan at the injustice of awakening, and retreats back under the covers.

She comes to after Morgana makes coffee. They regard each other in the thin sunlight trickling around the kitchen blinds – wary, hopeful, hungover.

“Let’s do that again sometime,” Vivian says at last.

It’s a bad idea. “Yes,” Morgana says.

 

**Party 6**

The good thing about Arthur – there are a few good things amongst all the annoying ones and Morgana is capable of acknowledging them – is that he only gets possessive about lovers while he is with them, and he’s pretty rational about them moving on afterwards. A look crosses his face when Morgana tells him that she’s started seeing Vivian, a brief flicker of suspicion, and she thinks he might ask the obvious question: how long has this been going on? But he doesn’t ask. “You two will probably suit each other,” is all he says.

It’s lucky Arthur has decided to be chill about this, because Uther isn’t, and Olaf is actively appalled. To be honest, Uther would probably be much calmer about it if he didn’t have to appease Olaf every time they meet. “There are other girls, surely,” he says to Morgana after one particularly uncomfortable dinner. “Do you have any other daughters?” Morgana retorts venomously, and the subject is dropped.

She does not propose to Vivian to spite their fathers. She doesn’t really mean to propose at all. One night while they are out on the town, eating sushi at Morgana’s favourite restaurant, she is watching Vivian mimic the precise gestures of a designer she hates and blurts, in a moment of madness, “I don’t ever want to stop doing this with you.”

Vivian blinks at her, slowly, and says, “Then let’s not.”

They go shopping for rings that same night. Vivian wants a classic diamond and Morgana chooses a slim silver band shaped like a serpent. "Gwen will make the wedding rings," Morgana says dreamily, holding her hand up under a street lamp, and Vivian holds hers up too so the diamond glints alongside the silver. They keep stopping every few steps to kiss and take the frantic exuberance of the night home to bed. Morgana almost expects it all to be dismissed as a joke in the morning, but she looks at the ring still on her hand and the lace bra thrown over the nearest lampshade, and more than anything in the world, she doesn’t want to stop doing this.

“Daddy is going to blow a gasket,” Vivian remarks from under her pillow. She sounds pleased.

“Shall we make it worse?” Morgana suggests happily. “I’ve got an idea.”

They deliver the news at Uther’s fiftieth birthday party, because they are not very nice people. Afterwards they phone around their friends, calling up whoever is available for a spur of the moment celebration at Morgana’s flat. Arthur is too busy talking Uther down from a temper to show up, but Morgause, Mordred and Kara are over in under ten minutes (“She’d better make you happy, darling,” Morgause growls, hugging Morgana tightly, “or I will invent a specific curse just for her”). Gwen leaves Lance and an ‘I told you so’ at home, Elena and Mithian come straight from Uther’s with a gleeful recounting of Olaf’s rant and Vivian’s friend Sefa acquires a cheese platter en route. Morgana spears a chunk of Edam and climbs onto the coffee table.

“Welcome to the wedding club, bitches!” she shouts. Everyone cheers.

 

**Party 7**

“Our wedding was so much cooler than this,” Vivian sighs, tipping her head back against the seat.

“Aren’t you relieved you married me instead of Arthur?” Morgana says, and gets swatted hard with Vivian’s magazine.

The rehearsal has been a yawn from the word go. Morgana is not technically a member of Arthur and Merlin’s wedding party, but as the older, wiser sibling with half a year of married life under her belt, she felt it necessary to sit at the back and give a cheerfully unhelpful commentary on the proceedings. They are not even rehearsing the ceremony in the real venue – the Avalon Museum’s new wing is complete but not open to the public – so it’s all happening at their celebrant’s house instead. Finna is a small, authoritative woman wrapped in layers of drab brown wool, apparently a friend of Merlin’s mother. She’s patiently waiting while Arthur and Merlin bicker over whether they’re going to have traditional vows or write their own. Talk about last minute. _Should have hired a wedding planner,_ Morgana mouths at Vivian, who smirks.

The groomsmen have settled around the room to await resolution, checking phones or chatting quietly. Freya is cross-legged on the floor with Finna’s cat in her lap, cooing over its fluffy paws. Seeing that Vivian has returned to her magazine, Morgana decides to find the kitchen and get a cup of the good coffee she knows Arthur brought with him.

The kitchen is already occupied. Morgana stops, surprised, when she sees a very small girl with white-blonde hair hiding inside the cupboard beside the stove, peering warily around the door. She looks no older than three. “Hello,” Morgana says, at something of a loss. She didn’t know Finna had any children. Not that she’s spent much time with the woman; Finna seems to not approve of her for some reason.

The little girl doesn’t answer. She stares through the crack with palpable suspicion and Morgana crouches down in an attempt to look less threatening. “I’m Morgana,” she says. “I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like milk? Or juice?”

This does not garner a response either. Morgana puts on the kettle and sits on the floor, across from the cupboard. The girl has eased the door open a fraction further to watch Morgana move around the kitchen; it is now visible that she’s wearing a grubby white jumper and holding a princess doll in her arms.

“I like Ariel too,” Morgana says softly. She remembers being small and distrustful; she had looked for power in girls with crowns back then. “Would you like to be a mermaid?”

That gets her a quick shake of the head. “A witch?” Morgana tries, and gets another head-shake. “A dragon,” she says, and the little girl smiles. “You have good taste. I have dragons at home, you know. Not big ones that breathe fire, unfortunately, but they’re still awesome. Do you want to see a picture?”

When she leans forward with her phone held out, the girl pushes the cupboard door open all the way to look. She doesn’t go so far as climbing out, and Morgana doesn’t come any closer. She hears the impatient click of approaching shoes in the hallway behind her, recognises it as Vivian’s walk and holds out a hand so that Vivian will slow down. She expects the little girl to shut herself back in the cupboard at the approach of another unknown element, but Vivian just gets wide-eyed interest. It’s probably the Disney princess vibe she gives off. Put her in a ballgown and every castle would open its doors to her.

“Are you making a friend?” Vivian asks, with exaggerated astonishment.

“It’s a change from enemies,” Morgana says. “She wants to be a dragon, you know.”

“Better get Merlin in here, you can start another club.” Vivian sits down next to Morgana, twitching her skirt over her knees. “Hello, dragon. I’m Vivian.”

Morgana shows the little girl more pictures of her pet lizards. She has a lot on her phone as she can never bear to delete any, and the girl studies them with fierce concentration. Her feet are bare, toes curled against the cool air. She should probably be wearing socks. Does Finna even know she has a small waif living in her cupboard?

It turns out she does, when she joins them a few minutes later. “Out of the cupboard, Aithusa, how many times do I have to say,” she says exasperatedly, and the little girl clambers out. “Where’s Daegal? He was meant to be keeping an eye on you.”

Aithusa looks mulish and doesn’t say a word. “Upstairs,” Finna says, pointing. “There’s a good girl. I’ll be up in a minute with a sandwich for you.”

“Bye, Aithusa!” Morgana calls, feeling suddenly rather bereft. Aithusa turns around in the kitchen doorway and gives a shy wave before darting off into the shadows.

“I’ve told her a dozen times,” Finna grumbles quietly, closing the cupboard. She casts a sharp look over Morgana and Vivian. “That’s Aithusa Borden. She scares easily around people she doesn’t know. I’m fostering her while social services look for a permanent home and my grandson was meant to be watching her upstairs, but she’s very quick when she wants to be.”

“She’s adorable,” Vivian says bluntly. “Is she okay? Does she talk when she wants to?”

“She doesn’t speak much English. Her father moved all over.”

Morgana glances towards the empty doorway. She has a feeling that Aithusa is listening – she would have been, when she was that age – and that she understands more than she lets on. “You’re looking for adoptive parents?” she says, more to the little girl hiding in the hallway than to Finna. When she looks sideways at Vivian, she sees a smile spreading across her face.

There is always space for another dragon in the family.

**Author's Note:**

> The official story returns in December!


End file.
